Twilight Town
by Barry H. Smith
Summary: Emma Peel joins the Royal Canadian Mounted Police... sort of...


**If you like Emma Peel of the original Avengers, you'll just love Elsa Steele, as featured in: **

  
  


"Twilight Town"

  
  


by 

  
  


Barry H. Smith 

  
  


(Author of "Twilight Dynasty")

  
  
  
  
  
  


The wolves howled at the rising moon, as terror propelled the man forward. The sun's death in the

forested hillsides had allowed the autumn temperature to fall into the sixties. Despite a cool breeze rustling

the tall grasses about him, sweat soaked his tattered clothes and glistened on the redness of his face. He

appeared to be in his forties, carrying a paunch that caused him to wheeze as he fled. As he stumbled

down the hillside away from the sleepy town, his legs seemed as rubbery as his fisherman's boots. He

reeked with the smell of fear. Reaching the roadway, he jerked his head back, searching for his pursuers.

Wolf howls assailed him, driving him forward, but his pursuers were not yet in sight. He made better time

on the road, boots slapping asphalt. He rested against the road sign to catch his breath. 

  
  


It read: _Twilight - Population: 550_

  
  


He had reached the town limits. A smile brightened his sweat-shined face. The crack of the rifle, the

crack of his skull, dropped him into a bloody mess on the pavement, signaling the end of his flight. As the

wolf howls filled the night, the small pack of human predators descended the hillside. They broke from

the darkness only long enough to heft the man's body into the woods. 

  
  
  
  


************

  
  
  
  


Her feet pounded the earth. The cool morning air was sucked into her lungs with controlled precision.

Through the trees, she could see the outline of the house. It was a half-timbered mansion set in the

sprawling grounds of the country estate. She pushed herself, propelling her sleek body through the

woodlands like an Olympic athlete. Dark hair was tied at the nape of her neck. Her toned form glistened

like bronze where it was exposed by tank top and jogging shorts. 

  
  


Mounting the last rise, the woman broke into a trot on the asphalt drive that snaked toward to

mansion. It encircled the sculptured fountain at the front entrance. There was something amiss. The

classic Lotus Elan parked in front of the triple car garage blended with the estate's elegance. The

mud-encrusted Jeep Wrangler with the motorcycle trailer did not. Neither did the wild-haired man who

stood facing the massive oak doors. He seemed intrigued by the security camera that was embedded into

the entrance door. It was shaped like a mystic eye, and the man was attempting to force its eyelid open

with one hand, while slamming the door knocker with the other. 

  
  


The man sensed her silent approach and turned about. He boldly admired the woman, his lips pursed

in a silent whistle. She folded her arms, maintaining her proud stance. His quick eyes scanned her curves,

but lingered on her face. Dark brown eyes sparkled with a mixture of curiosity and intelligence. Shoulder

length brunette hair framed an intriguing face; finely sculpted cheekbones, pert nose, dimpled amusement

cultivated by expressive lips. "May I help you?" Her cultured English accent was unmistakable. 

  
  


"Lookin' for a Mrs. Steele. 'Pears no one's home. An' this bloody cyclops don't work fer crap." 

  
  


"I was out for my morning constitutional," she replied. 

  
  


"_You're_ Steele?" 

  
  


"That's what my marriage certificate says." 

  
  


She appraised the man as she mounted the stairs. He stood about 5' 10" in his heeled boots, only an

inch and a half taller than she was in her runners. He had a day's growth of beard. His dark, wavy hair

seemed to have a will of its own. It swept back from his forehead, over his ears, and tumbled to his

collar. He was dressed in a loud plaid shirt, and tight jeans. Tossing his cigar aside, he pulled out his I.D.

wallet and flashed his badge. 

  
  


"Name's Grogan. I'm R.C.M.P." 

  
  


"Elsa Steele. Smoking will kill you, Inspector Grogan." 

  
  


"It'll have a lotta competition," he smirked. "And just call me Grogan." 

  
  


Steele turned away from him as she replied. "Fine. Grogan it is. You can call me Mrs. Steele." 

  
  


"Hm. Feisty broad, eh? You Brits are somethin' else." 

  
  


"Transplanted Brit, Grogan. Been a Canadian citizen since my teens." Steele spun the tumblers on the

combination lock. The bronze eyelid opened, stared her down for a second, then released the door with

an electronic whir. Grogan was still staring at the bronze eye as it snapped closed. "Retina scan," she

explained as she led him into the main floor sitting room. The door closed automatically behind them,

locking with the sound of a bank vault. "Now, to what do I owe the honour of a visit from the world

famous Mounties?" 

  
  


"You contacted us, Mrs. Steele." Grogan paced about like a caged animal while Steele settled on the

couch. As he spoke, he surveyed the pictures and mementoes on the mantle of the stone fireplace. "You

applied to the police college last year within months of your hubby bein' declared missin' in action on an

Interpol assignment." Grogan admired the framed Award of Excellence with the name John Steele

calligraphed thereon. Beside it was a photograph of Mrs. Steele and a distinguished man with bowler hat

and cane. "Is this the famous Superintendent John Steele?" 

  
  


"You presume correctly. Now, could we get to the point, Grogan? I was a civilian martial arts

instructor at the Canadian Police College prior to my husband's death. I'm fully capable of completing the

C.P.C. program, but my application was summarily rejected. So, why the sudden interest?" 

  
  


"Yer file's drenched with tragedy, both parents murdered within months of your husband's death. The

Commish figured you'd crack fer sure, if you get my drift." 

  
  


"You're anything but subtle, my dear man. So what changed their mind?" 

  
  


"Not only didn't ya fall apart... ya excelled. Ya took over yer old man's fashion and cosmetic empire

and tripled profits in under a year. So, when somethin' came up that's right up yer alley, I thought I'd see

if yer still up fer it." 

  
  


"You've been sent to test me... see if I still have what it takes? Fine!" She rose. "There's a gymnasium

downstairs." 

  
  


"Oooooo! Can't wait to pin you to the mat, honey." He patted her playfully on the butt as she turned

to lead the way. 

  
  


Steele spun and kicked in one fluid motion. Grogan barely avoided the roundhouse. This set him up

for the sidekick that knocked him over the couch. When he gained his feet, it was with a switchblade

popped like a claw in his fist. He vaulted onto the couch, and sprang forward. Grogan smiled as he

backed her against the wall. 

  
  


Cooly, Steele removed a rapier from the wall display. "On guard," she challenged, easily parrying his

smaller weapon. She sliced his shirt open, and forced him back. Grogan dropped beneath her next thrust,

seized the rug, and yanked her feet out from under her. He slammed her onto her back. The force of

impact sent the foil clattering from her hand. Grogan seized her by the hair and pressed his blade against

her throat. 

  
  


"I was the one who replaced ya at the police college, babe. You're a mite rusty." 

  
  


Her fists clapped his ears, momentarily deafening him. Trembling fingers released the blade. A

follow-up blow knocked him off her. Then, it was Steele who was on top. Snatching his weapon while he

was still dazed, she positioned the knifepoint under his chin. 

  
  


"You talk a good fight, Grogan. Want me to demonstrate the killing stroke for you?" 

  
  


He spread his arms, palms up, in surrender. "I take it back, little lady. Welcome aboard." 

  
  


She retracted the blade and handed it back to him. 

  
  


"So what's this special assignment?" 

  
  


"Well, you could say we'll be investigatin' a huntin' accident." 

  
  


"A hunting accident? The R.C.M.P. wants me activated to investigate a hunting accident?" 

  
  


"Apparent accident," Grogan corrected. "Got anything by Molson's?" He headed toward the wet bar.

Steele followed, watching him scour the fridge for a recognizable brew. He finally settled for a Guinness.

"The victim was on a fishin' trip. Turned out to be a high-profile American politician... Senator Hugh

Summers." 

  
  


"You suspect an assassination?" 

  
  


"Summers wasn't the first accident in these parts. Three in all. All foreigners. Yesterday, the F.B.I.

finally leveled with us. The first two were bureau agents on an op not sanctioned by Ottawa." 

  
  


"A slight breach of protocol." 

  
  


"Better believe it. The big boys are furious. They want an undercover operative in the area without

delay... someone who ain't American but can pass for an outsider." 

  
  


"Why an outsider?" 

  
  


"The townsfolk are extremely tightlipped. Federal and local cops've been crawlin' all over the

backwater town of _Twilight_ fer days. No one admits to hearin' anything, seein' anything, knowin'

anything. No one remembers Summers, even though his car was found parked in front'a the local

hardware store. Any stranger who walks inta town after that inquisition better look nothin' like a cop.

'Sides, our perps will be expectin' American retaliation or a Canadian undercover agent, not a lone English

woman on her way to her Sudbury cosmetics plant." 

  
  


Grogan dug a jewelry box out of his pocket, and snapped it open to reveal a pair of diamond earrings. 

  
  


"Grogan, you shouldn't have." 

  
  


"I didn't. They're fake. We're maintainin' radio silence in case transmissions are bein' monitored. If you

get a line on what's goin' down in this town, hightail it out of there. If you get in a jam, push hard on the

stem of the left earring and it'll activate a homin' signal. I'll extricate ya A.S.A.P. . Any questions?" 

  
  


"Does this mean we're engaged?" 

  
  


"Very droll." Grogan mimicked her accent. 

  
  


Steele exchanged her studs for the earrings. "Level with me, Grogan. Did you select me so you could

make fun of my accent, pinch my butt, or both?" 

  
  


"I needed someone who'd be highly motivated. The F.B.I. suspect the involvement of a Mid-East

terrorist group name'a Black Venom." He noticed Steele's mouth drop open, her eyes misting as they

drifted to the wedding picture on the mantle. "So you knew Black Venom was his last assignment?" 

  
  


She nodded, still stunned. 

  
  
  
  


************

Steele and Grogan headed from the Ottawa area in separate vehicles. Elsa would have preferred her

Lotus to Grogan's Jeep; but, he insisted that it fit the country locale better. Grogan directed her onto the

seldom traveled road that led to _Twilight_, while his Harley continued along the highway. She eased up on

the accelerator as she passed the abandoned True Brick factory on the town's outskirts. This had been

_Twilight's_ chief industry before it ran afoul of Environment Canada and was shut down two years ago. It

was still protected by its eight-foot chain link fence, but was overgrown with vines and crumbling into

disuse. The factory's closure had turned _Twilight_ into a dying town, apparently in more ways than one. 

  
  


The drive had been uneventful, until the explosion rocked the jeep. Steele went into combat mode,

jerking the vehicle to a stop on the shoulder and diving beneath the dash. The .32 was removed from the

glove box. She scoured the woods for any sign of movement. The steam from the hood drained her

tension away. She returned the weapon, released the hood, and stepped out of the jeep. She was dressed

in a waist-length suede jacket and matching skirt. She used the jacket to fan the steam aside. The hood

was lifted to reveal a mess of shattered hoses and leaking fluids. 

  
  


"That's what Grogan meant," she muttered to herself. "He said I could tarry in _Twilight_ without raising

suspicion. The stinker booby-trapped his own jalopy." 

  
  


Retrieving her overnight bag from the passenger seat, she headed into town on foot. 

  
  
  
  


************

  
  
  
  


Owen Hunter ignored the oil and grease that smeared his hands and coveralls as he completed his work

under the chassis of Elmer Wilkins' pick-up. Likewise, he ignored the bell from the service station office.

The feminine voice finally broke his concentration. He turned to see the low-heeled sandals move to

where he lay. Pushing himself out from under the truck on his roller-board, he beheld a woman of

uncommon beauty. 

  
  


She was obviously not a local girl. Her jacket was slung over one shoulder, her upper body draped in a

fashionable, silken blouse. Her short skirt showcased long, shapely legs. She lowered her sunglasses to

meet his devouring gaze, shocking him back to reality. 

  
  


"Can I help ya, ma'am?" 

  
  


"Hopefully," she smiled. "My vehicle died on the edge of town. I'll need a tow and some mechanical

work." 

  
  


Owen looked at his grease-smeared watch. "You'd best get a tow inta North Bay. I can't look at it

t'day. Four twenty already." 

  
  


Her lips twisted into a wry smile. "Double time after five, I suppose?" 

  
  


"No one 'round here works after five. It's quittin' time." He rolled himself back under the truck. 

  
  


Steele crouched down in pursuit of the mechanic. "Could you ring the motor league for me?" 

  
  


"Phone's in the office," Hunter's voice echoed from beneath the truck. 

  
  


"How very kind of you," she clipped her words. 

  
  


The desk in the office was strewn with grease-smeared work orders, under which hid a black rotary

phone. She called the C.A.A., surveying the town through Hunter's glassed-in office while she waited for

the tow truck to arrive with her vehicle. Across the street was a Fifties style strip plaza that boasted an

antique shop, a bookstore, a pizzeria, and various other establishments. There were only a few cars parked in the angled spaces in front of the plaza. At the end of the street stood the town church. Hunter's garage was flanked on one side by _Ted's Restaurant_, and on the other side by a two story building containing a hardware and sporting goods store. It seemed to be the busiest of the town's businesses. On the other side of _Hargrove's Hardware and Sports_ stood an English styled pub named the _Twilight House_. She studied the townspeople. Their pace was unhurried until five o'clock approached. Then, she noticed a marked increase in their activity. Shop-owners prepared for closing time. Several people made their way into the _Twilight House_, while others headed towards the residential section of town. Main Street was virtually deserted by the time Hunter's clock chimed five. 

  
  


"Curiouser and curiouser," she whispered to herself. 

  
  


"You still here?" Hunter stood in the doorway wiping the grease from his hands. She turned from

where she stood at the window. He towered over her, even though she was 5' 10' in her heels. Thinning

hair straggled about his full face. She gauged Hunter at six foot six and two hundred and fifty pounds.

Intense eyes bore down at her from under protruding brows. "Closin' for the day." He turned the Open

sign about where it dangled on the glass door. "You'll haveta wait fer the tow truck outside." 

  
  


"My you are a stickler for time, aren't you?" 

  
  


"Folks 'round here like to keep to a sensible schedule, Miss..." 

  
  


"Mrs... Mrs. Steele." 

  
  


"We don't much like strangers 'round these parts... ever since outsiders shut down the old brick

factory." He waved a stained hand toward the horizon where the lonely smokestack jutted above the

treeline like an accusing finger. "There's no lodgings in town, Mrs. Steele. I suggest you have the motor

league take you and your vehicle to a more tourist-friendly town." 

  
  


"You don't sound hungry for business, Mr. Hunter, despite the factory's closing." Hunter glared back

at her. Just then, she noticed the tow truck approaching. "There it is now. I'm tired from my journey. I'll

leave my jeep here for you to service in the morning." 

  
  


"Suit yourself." 

  
  


Hunter locked the door behind her. By the time she finished with the tow truck driver, he was gone. 

  
  
  
  


************

  
  
  
  


Unlike the rest of town, the _Twilight House_ was full of life. The sounds of chatter and raucous laughter

greeted Steele as she entered, but soon subsided. Several of the men eyed her with interest, while envy

coloured the women's stares. The pub was packed. About twenty people were seated about the chunky

wooden tables, some dining and others altering their mood with mugs of ale. Having taken her measure,

the customers returned to their activities. Voices were raised. Darts flew. Steele lifted herself onto a bar

stool. An unsavoury-looking man fixed his penetrating stare on her long legged form, undressing her with

his eyes. A young waitress with painted on jeans and a tight tee shirt scurried from the kitchen with a tray

of food. The sexy waitress finally diverted the unsavoury man's stare. Steele spun her stool toward the

bar. A middle-aged woman, dressed like an English barmaid, approached to take her order. The woman's

figure was too full, and her face overly round. 

  
  


"Can I help you, dearie?" It was anything but an authentic English accent. 

  
  


"My name is Elsa Steele. I've had some car trouble. I wonder if I could rent a room for the night?" 

  
  


The woman's pleasant face tensed about the eyes. "I-I'm sorry, Miss Steele, but we don't have any

lodgings. We get very few foreigners in town. Trucker over there's driving a rig to Sudbury." She

motioned towards the unsavoury man with the penetrating stare. "Perhaps you could hitch a ride--" 

  
  


"No. I don't think so. This is a converted house. Certainly there are extra rooms to let." 

Steele reached into her handbag, and slid two hundred dollar bills across to the barmaid. A tentative smile

betrayed the woman's crumbling resolve. "It doesn't have to be anything fancy." She shot a glance at the

man with the penetrating eyes. "I do enjoy my privacy, though." 

  
  


"Well... there is a small room. It's mostly used for storage. Window's broken... boarded up." 

  
  


"I shan't require a view." 

  
  


"Very well. By the way, you can call me Ruth." Ruth secreted the bills in her blouse, lifted a section of

the bar's countertop, and led Steele up a creaking stairway behind the bar. Elsa counted four doors leading

from the second floor hallway. Ruth motioned toward the end of the corridor. "Washroom's down there.

You'll haveta share with the others." 

  
  


"Others?" 

"My husband and I, and Ginny, the waitress. Your room's in here." The door was padlocked. "Like I

said, it's used for storage." 

  
  


Ruth unlocked and removed the padlock, slipping it into her apron. The door's hinges complained as

they entered. The window was covered with plywood. Dust blanketed the bed and dresser. A mound of

supplies were stacked on the floor under a clear plastic covering. 

  
  


"Help yourself to fresh sheets and cleaners." 

  
  


"It appears I've got my work cut out for me." 

  
  


"The pub closes at six, if you want to grab dinner. Lights out by seven." 

  
  


"Strange hour for a pub to close." 

  
  


"There's a curfew in _Twilight_. No exceptions." 

  
  


"And who came up with that repressive little rule? 

  
  


"Why, we had a referendum," Ruth answered defensively. "The vote was unanimous, and we haven't

had a stitch of crime ever since." 

  
  


Steele raised an eyebrow in response, as the flustered barmaid departed. She then set about making

her room liveable. It took the better part of a half hour to clean the room, and put clean sheets on the bed.

Ruth kindly brought her a tray of food at quarter to six. She ate in the privacy of her room, then stripped

for a cleansing shower. The impatient banging on the bathroom door made the experience less than

relaxing. Ginny glared at Elsa as she exited, grumbling under her breath about outsiders. 

  
  


The silence from the main floor was eerie. Apparently, not a single patron lingered after six o'clock.

Instead of going to bed, Elsa dressed once again, this time in a more utilitarian outfit. Black leather pants

fit her like a second skin as did matching boots. She slipped into a lavender corset tee, fastening its

hook-and-eye closures to mid-bosom. Then, she reversed her suede jacket, exposing its black leather

guise. Besides the central zipper, the garment was adorned with zippered pockets. She draped the jacket

over the footboard of the bed, and checked her watch. It was a minute to curfew. She doused the lights.

She sat on bed, but had no intention of sleeping until she was certain nothing was afoot in this strange

town. 

  
  
  
  


************

  
  
  
  


She didn't recall falling asleep. As she slept, the only sounds in the _Twilight House_ were the occasional

groan or creak of the aged structure. Nonetheless, images and sounds flooded her unconscious mind. A

voice seemed to be speaking to her, suggesting she sleep soundly unless she was called upon. The 'voice'

was reminiscent of her Japanese sensei. Her family had travelled extensively during her childhood. At

various times, they had lived in Africa, the Far East, India, South America, and finally Canada. Peter

Knight had insisted that his daughter study all manner of self defense, as she was a girl growing up in an

increasingly violent world. It was years before she would learn that her father had been an operative for

Interpol. His Ottawa Interpol posting resulted in the family making their final move to Canada. 

  
  


While in Japan, Elsa was given private lessons in the art of Ninjutsu. Her mysterious sensei was

known to her only as Master Shado. The 'voice' in her head had the same hypnotic quality as Shado,

without the chopped Japanese accent. She couldn't distinguish the actual words, but the intent was clear.

She was to sleep, to empty her mind, and to ignore all sounds save the beating of her heart. Only if she

were called by name would she rise. At eight o'clock in the morning, she would awake refreshed and

would remember nothing of the 'voice'. 

  
  


Master Shado had trained her mind as well as her body, as not all assaults are physical in nature.

Steele's mind resisted the whispered instructions. She filled her mind with images... images of her

departed husband... his gentle touch... their passionate love-making ... the news of the tragic deaths of the

few people who had glimpsed her soul... and back to memories of her long dead sensei. She could still

hear Master Shado explaining control to twelve year old Elsa Knight. 

  
  


"Little flower, your soul is like your shadow. It is always with you in one form or another. From

sunrise to sunset it is your constant companion, at noon it is a mere aura, at twilight you are closest to

being at one with its dark essence. To be at one with your spiritual essence, you must likewise study it

and understand it, until no one but you has the key to its secrets. Permit no one to enter your private

domain. Guard it jealously." 

  
  


Elsa Steele's eyes snapped open, and sounds crashed about her like waves birthed by a sudden squall.

Every dog in the neighbourhood was howling. There were sounds in the hallway. Over the canine wails,

she could hear the echo of marching from the street below. She sprang from the bed fully alert, and

cracked the door open. Ginny, fully dressed, left her room and headed downstairs. Ruth stepped into the

hall with a man Elsa assumed was her husband. She noted the glazed look in Ruth's eyes before she

closed the door to avoid detection. The next sound was unmistakable. The padlock was secured once

again to the outside of her door. 

  
  


The marching sound intensified. 'Could it be a terrorist invasion?' she thought. 'But, why here?' She

slipped on her jacket, buckling its belt and throat protector. Twin daggers were secreted in the zipped

scabbard-like pockets of each sleeve. 

  
  


She used one of the daggers to pry the plywood from the window. Its removal did little to improve the

view. The window faced the brick wall of the hardware store. She poked her head through the jagged

remnants of the window pane. There was a narrow alleyway between the buildings that could only be

navigated crab-like. Craning her neck, she could see a slivered portion of the main street. 

  
  


There were no soldiers, but it looked like all of the adult population of _Twilight_ was up and about.

There was no talking and everyone who passed the mouth of the alleyway was walking in step. Elsa

carefully climbed through the shattered window and onto the window ledge. It was a sheer drop to the

concrete below. Removing a length of cord from a zippered pocket, she triggered the stud on the metal

weight attached to one end. Prongs snapped open converting it into a small grappling hook. She tossed it

over the edge of the neighbouring roof, scaled the hardware store wall, and hauled herself onto its tar and

gravel roof. 

  
  


It was eerie as she lay there under the full moon. From her perch, she could hear the wolves joining

the dogs in their terrifying serenade. She suddenly felt very alone. She fingered her earring, as if to assure

herself that it was still there. Her mind was racing. She needed more proof before calling the feds in on

what might turn out to be nothing more than a clandestine town meeting. 

  
  


Moving to the front of the building, she peered into the street. There were about four hundred people

walking six abreast in a column that stretched the entire length of the town. They were headed back in the

direction of the abandoned brick factory. Unzipping another pocket, she removed a small telescope, and

set it on infrared. She located the smokestack, but it looked different. A mysterious antenna now

telescoped from its crumbling remains. 

  
  


"Ultrasonics," she whispered to herself. "Hypnotic ultrasonics." 

  
  
  
  


************

  
  
  
  


She raced down the fire escape at the back of the building, making good time by cutting through the

woods. The wolves continued to howl, but seemed too distracted by the ultrasonics to pose a danger to

her. She remained concealed at the side of the highway as the column of glassy-eyed people passed. She

recognized Hunter, Ruth and Ginny. All of them kept in step like good little soldiers. No one herded them

forward. The end of the column approached. Elsa reversed her jacket, opened the sleeves' seam-like

closures to provide easy access to her weapons, and joined the end of the column. 

  
  


As they neared the factory, she noted that it was a hub of activity. The gate had been opened to

receive the silent marchers. The front of the column was already entering the factory building. A lone man

in hunter's garb stood by the gate with a rifle in hand. Steele fixed her stare on the bald spot of the man in

front of her. All expression drained from her face. They entered the factory and filed into a makeshift

auditorium, filling the rows of folding chairs in orderly fashion. Once everyone was seated, the lights

dimmed and the large screen and speakers came to life. 

  
  


A man holding a microphone stood in the shadows beside the screen. His voice was the same one she

had heard in her sleep. He spoke in a slow melodic tone as images flooded the screen... images of

American cities and well-known political figures. In between the pictures flashed lists of names in

subliminal fashion. Steele noticed Owen Hunter's name amongst them. 

  
  


"It is time for the final group to depart in preparation for your individual assignments. Our seed will be

scattered by the four winds, and the harvest will be great. Only those who have not received specific

assignments will remain behind. As always, continue to be suspicious of strangers in your midst. We are

the twilight body, and outsiders are a virulent plague." Elsa reacted ever so slightly when Hugh Summers'

face filled the screen. "This target was an unexpected bonus. He wandered into town on a fishing trip and

was immediately recognized and eliminated by the Washington cell. Good work, gentlemen!" 

  
  


As the voice played to his captive audience, one of the soldiers walked up the aisle, sweeping his

flashlight across the impassive faces. He was making notations on his clipboard. The flashlight's beam

lingered overlong on Steele's face before moving on. 

  
  


After a further twenty minutes of subliminal flashes, the significance of which Elsa could only ponder,

the group was dismissed and started to file out of the room. As she entered the hallway, the soldier with

the flashlight ordered her to follow him into an adjacent office. She obeyed without hesitation. She was

instructed to stand at attention. Visually, she fixed her eyes on Wichita, Kansas, a dot on the United

States wall map. Mentally, she was using her other senses to get a fix on numbers and position. She

detected three men: the one holding the flashlight, a guard stationed outside the door, and the leader of the group who stood directly behind her. 

  
  


"Is she fully under?" the leader demanded. 

  
  


"'Pears to be. She's a real looker." 

  
  


"Stick to business." The leader cocked his revolver and pressed it against the back of her head. "Frisk

her." 

  
  


Laying his flashlight aside, the man checked her boots for weapons. Finding none, he ran his fingers

up her legs, then patted her crotch and buttocks. When his hands slipped under her open jacket, he

eagerly explored her breasts out of his commander's line of vision. The stink of his body and breath

assailed her senses, but she didn't flinch. Then he felt the knives secreted in her jacket's sleeves. 

  
  


"She's armed!" 

  
  


The explosion of the gun momentarily deafened her. She was already in motion, dropping into a

crouch. A backfist knocked the gun from the leader's hand, and a karate blow to the head dropped him to

his knees. When the other man snatched up the flashlight and tried to brain her with it, the palm thrust

shattered his nose. 

  
  


"Mind if I feel you up now?" she quipped, then drove her knee into his genitals. He dropped to the

floor, writhing in pain. 

  
  


The guard finally kicked in the locked door. He raised his rifle to fire. Her hurled knife drove through

his eye to embed itself in his brain. He was dead before his body struck the floor. 

  
  


The uproar alerted the balance of the cadre of terrorists. The leader was a large man in his fifties with a

swarthy complexion, bushy beard, and extremely poor vision. Her blow had shattered his glasses. He was

feeling about on the floor for his weapon. Steele seized him from behind and placed her other knife across

his throat. 

  
  


"What are the numbers in this facility?" She spoke calmly, but forcefully. She gestured at the man

who was still writhing on the floor. "Talk, or both of you will be singing soprano." 

  
  


"Seven. I swear." As if on cue, two men in black berets and khakis stormed into the room with M-16's

in hand. Her human shield tensed. "D-Don't shoot. She'll kill me." In the hallway, the townspeople

continued to file from the auditorium, completely oblivious to the armed conflict. If her hostage was

telling the truth, only the guard at the outside gate and the announcer remained at large. 

  
  


"Thank you for the movie, boys, but I shan't be staying for drinks. Now, if you'll kindly move aside,

your commander will live to tell the tale." 

  
  


She started to drag her hostage toward the door, when a third man appeared in the doorway with

revolver drawn. Slick hair and trimmed mustache coupled with silk shirt and dress pants gave him the

look of a gentleman terrorist. The ugly scar that creased his cheek lent him a sinister look. Without a

word, he began firing. Her human shield shook from the impact. Three bullets tore into his chest. He fell

into a bloody pool at her feet, leaving her defenseless. 

  
  


"Drop the knife. Now!" the killer demanded. It was the voice of the shadowy announcer. He was the

real leader, not the dead man at her feet. Her weapon clattered to the floor. "Take her to the interrogation

room. She will talk before she dies." 

  
  


"Yes, Lord Rehman." 

  
  


Steele was seized and roughly removed from the room by the two berets. The interrogation room was

a converted workshop. Steele was lifted onto a workbench. Her arms were pulled over her head and

bound to a wooden column. Then they jammed her ankles into vises on either side of the bench. The

vises were tightened until they drew blood. As she struggled, Elsa furtively pressed her head hard against

her shoulder, so hard that the earring's stem dug into her flesh before it snapped into depressed mode. A

machine bolted to the edge of the workbench loomed over her helpless form. 

  
  


Rehman, the gentleman terrorist, set about his work, while the other two men were stationed by the

door. He slapped her repeatedly, tossing brunette hair about her face. Then, he turned his attention to the

machine that she now identified as a table saw. He flicked a switch. The circular blade hummed to life, its

jagged edge transforming into a smooth blur above her. Rehman balanced a brick lengthwise on her

throat. He reached for the handle, and levered the blade downward. The blade bit into the brick, forcing it

down hard on her windpipe. It started to choke her. She refused to cry out, but her mouth was forced

open by the pain. He leaned down close to her, placing his ear next to her lips. 

  
  


"Tell me who sent you here, and I'll stop the pain." He pulled down on the lever, and she gasped for

air. Reddish-brown dust sprayed into her face. "Who sent you?" Her lips moved, but only a gurgle

escaped constrained vocal cords. He eased the tension. "Say again?" 

  
  


"M-My husband... k-killed... I-I came... t-to avenge..." 

  
  


A crooked smile twisted her tormentor's face. The injury that scarred his cheek had apparently

deadened the left side of his face. 

  
  


"His name?" 

  
  


"J-John... S-Steele." 

  
  


Hard obsidian eyes finally betrayed a hint of emotion. The saw sliced easily through the brick, and it

fell away in halves, releasing the tension on her throat. 

  
  


"You're John Steele's wife? How unfortunate for you. Your husband etched this scar with a sword

secreted in his cane. Now, Allah has granted me the opportunity to return the favour. It's a shame...

you're a beautiful woman." 

  
  


He slid the blade directly over her face and locked it in place. Elsa moved her head to the side, as far

as her bonds would allow. Rehman's crooked smile returned as he lowered the blade until it tore into the

skin of her cheek, washing her face in a fine crimson spray. 

  
  
  
  


************

  
  
  
  


The tracking device pulsed from its cradle on Grogan's handlebars. He gunned the engine, popping a

wheelie as he powered his Harley onto the highway. He sped towards _Twilight_ to the intensifying sound

of the tracker. 

Just outside of town, he skidded to a stop. He couldn't believe his eyes. An army of people had just

finished filing from the abandoned factory grounds. His homing device indicated that Steele was inside.

The squeal of tires alerted the lone guard. The perimeter alarm sounded. The guard hurried to swing the

gates closed, but Grogan was already on top of him. He roared through, kicking the guard aside, and tore

across the lot towards the building. Two soldiers in black berets appeared at the factory's entrance with

M-16's in hand. Distinctive arm bands marked them as Black Venom troops. Grogan veered away from

the spray of bullets, but one caught his arm and a couple pinged from his helmet. He slid the bike to a

stop, dove behind a storage shed, and flattened himself below its concrete foundation. Bullets ventilated

the shed's tin walls. 

  
  


He checked the guard at the gate. He had recovered and was lining up Grogan in his rifle's scope.

Grogan rolled and fired. His .45 slug struck the scope dead centre, exploding the man's eye in a spray of

blood. The berets were more challenging targets, crouching as they were in the mouth of the brick

structure. He removed the HK69A1 grenade launcher from his backpack. 

  
  
  
  


************

  
  
  
  


After ordering the two berets to investigate the alarm, Rehman returned to his work. 

  
  


"Now, where were we? Ah yes. You told me you came to avenge your husband, but then our facility

is attacked by persons unknown. My first pass inflicted only a minor flesh wound... a hint of the pain to

come. You'd best cooperate, or the next cut will sever your facial muscles, inflicting permanent damage.

Who's attacking this facility?" The blade was lowered once again to within an inch of her bloodied face.

"Now, Mrs. Steele!" 

  
  


"I don't know. Maybe you've offended someone with your atrocious social skills." 

  
  


"Very well. If threats to your vanity are ignored. What about threats to your life?" He repositioned the

blade directly above her throat. Her eyes still flashed defiantly up at him. "You're a brave one. John

would be proud... if only he could remember you." Her eyes widened and the blade hesitated in its

descent. "That's right. He was my first guinea pig. I wiped out his memory and sent him undercover. My

success with him gave me the idea of creating an entire town of unsuspecting assassins. John was

programmed to kill Clinton, but Bill destroyed himself through public humiliation. One day, we'll call John

into active service again. Now, talk while you still have vocal cords, Mrs. Steele." He lowered the saw

blade so that it nicked at the soft whiteness of her throat. She shut her eyes. Salty tears stung her open

wound. 

  
  


The explosion disrupted Rehman's sport. Through the doorway he could see the cloud of smoke and

powdered concrete sweeping into the building from the crushed entrance. The saw sprang back into rest

position, as he released it to race toward the hallway. A roar like a rabid lion echoed down the hall, and a

1200 c.c. Harley Sportster rocketed into the room. Rehman reached for his gun, but the hurtling machine

struck him full throttle, and carried him across the room. Elsa was screaming to Grogan, pleading for her

tormentor's life. Before he could interpret her cries, Rehman was crushed against the concrete wall with

such velocity that his head exploded. 

  
  
  
  


************

  
  
  
  


Elsa Steele sat perched on Grogan's motorcycle in the factory's parking lot. A tactical team arrived to

secure the crime scene, while Grogan tended to her wounds. 

  
  


"Are you sure John's still alive? Rehman could have just been yankin' yer chain." 

  
  


"He was seconds away from separating my head from my shoulders, and he was deadly serious. He

meant for me to take the knowledge to my grave. I'll find him, Grogan... if it takes my entire fortune and

the rest of my life." 

  
  


Grogan finished bandaging her wounds. "No permanent damage. Lucky, or we'd have babe watchers

committin' suicide in record numbers." 

  
  


"You're an incorrigible sexist, old chum." Her wry smile returned. She swung astride the bike and

kick-started it on the first try. "You need a few lessons from the Elsa Steele Charm School for Men. Hop

aboard, Grogan, and I'll take you to your Jeep. Chauvinists in the rear." 

  
  


Grogan was swinging into the seat behind her when she gave it full throttle. He hugged her

instinctively to steady himself. Brunette hair swept into his face intoxicating him with her essence. 

  
  


He called into her ear over the rush of air. "You're one tough little lady, Elsa." 

  
  


"That's Mrs. Steele. Now, I've got a husband to find." 

  
  


"An' here I thought we were engaged." 

  
  


The Harley rocketed into the early morning haze until it was naught but a dot on the horizon. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


The End (for now)

  
  
  
  
  
  


TM- "The Avengers" and "Emma Peel" are trademarks of Canal+ Image International; "Twilight Town" and "Elsa Steele" are copyrights of Barry H. Smith) 


End file.
